Jobless Morning

A lot of people have said a lot of things about Steve Jobs. Don't think there's anything left to say. At least for someone who has never seen him or used anything that he helped create. Not even an iPod. But most certainly due to an overwhelming overflow of glorious outpourings and information on him, I can't but think about this man. Who was he? Why was he so popular? Was he a Thomas Edison? Or, a Pablo Picasso? Was he an inventor? Was he an artist? No, no, no. He was a consumerist. The greatest, perhaps. One who knew what exactly a consumer needed.

Sure, Jobs had a great sense of design that  matched any artist. But his direction was diagonally opposite to Picasso's. As an artist, Picasso was after the truth, uncovering the secrets and inner selves of objects he painted. Jobs, as a designer, was after ease of use. hid the secrets and brains of his machines behind sleek interfaces.

And, like Edison, Jobs came up with things that changed the way people did things. But Edison redefined life for the entire humanity, Jobs did it for the consumer.

He was the perfect foil for the I-me-myself consumer that the developed world has become. His inventions are basically the high point of this generation of independent, self-centered individuals who, spoilt for choices in entertainment and comforts, shut themselves out from the rest of humanity to live in their own individual worlds. We see iPad, we hear iPod, we speak on iPhone. That's the ultimate power of this generation—to create and live in one's own individual world. And the greatness of Jobs was to read the mind of this consumer who every businessman in every industry is out to woo.

Post script: Another guy, who did exactly that (reading the consumer's mind) and himself a complete individualist, has began changing the world of individual consumerism. His name: Mark Zuckerberg. His contribution to humanity: Facebook revolution.

Death of a Diplomat (A short story)

It’s the sound of the radio that woke Krishan Sharma. Who put it on? He yelled. Apparently, he had dozed off on the sofa. There was nobody else in the palatial living room except for the numerous portraits, paintings and the tiger skin that hung on the wall. Omaar! Lekshmii! Yousef! The house is full of people when you don’t want them. Veena! Vikram! Gautam! Holy shit! Where the heck is everybody? Vikram! Where are the kids? Gautam!

Sharma rubbed his eyes. He had a headache and he was thirsty. He was slumbering towards the radio when its irritating noise turned into meaningful words—excited, edgy words of a newsreader. It’s a war! Indian army is marching towards Lahore. Oh my god! There has been a huge terror attack on Mumbai! They say it was Pakistan-supported terrorist group. It’s a war! Vikram, Gautam! Oh my sons!

He rushed to the window to peek out. There’s a noisy crowd outside the embassy. Some are throwing stones. They are going to kill us! Veena! Vikram! We must escape. Where are these guys? Where is the telephone?

The portraits had descented from the wall and were dancing around him. He heard a stone crash a window behind him. There are cries and yells. Was that Veena? Veena, Veena! We are dead! Gautam! Mahatma Gandhi, Muhammed Ali Jinnah, Pandit Nehru, Indira Gandhi, Zia ul Haq, the tiger…all the faces were going around him. Are they making the noise? Are they laughing? Or chanting? Sanjay Gandhi, Barack Obama, Narendra Modi, Bin Laden, Veena, Antonia…Stop it, STOP IT!

Sharma jumped up. He was on his bed. Out of breath and sweating profusely. Another bad dream! The aircon is working alright. Sharma felt his head. It was hot and wet with his sweat. He sat up. Poured a glass of water from a jar on the bedside table. He sat in the dark. There was enough light coming through the curtains from outside. The moon was out.

He sat on the bed, staring through the transparent curtain, through the balcony, to the night. Deep night. The gaze just goes on and on through the deep blue sky. What a life this is! What a shame!

Sharma was living alone. He had never had any sleepless night during his days as the Indian  ambassador in Pakistan. He was never scared and felt threatened in the not-so-friendly neighbouring country. In fact, he had a good relationship with Zia ul Haq. It was before Kashmir came into a boiling point. It was when Soviet Union was still at large in Afghanistan. And Sharma always considered himself a brave man. Ready to deal with any crisis. He could've had many, being an obsessive philanderer with extremely dangerous liaisons wherever he went. He could still feel the heat deep in his abdomen, itching on his penis. An uncontrollable urge to pee.

He stood up hurriedly and clumsily. His whole body was paining. The knees almost gave in. Fucking arthritis! He didn't want to wet his Panama and bed. He turned on the light. It hit his eyes. He shambled to the bathroom, eyes almost shut, unable to bear the light.

His sons, Vikram and Gautam, were now in their late forties, leading their successful lives in Australia and Dubai. It was more than 20 years since Sharma divorced their mother, Veena. That was in Spain. In the year he retired from the Indian Foreign Service after serving in Zambia, Mauritius, Australia and Spain besides Pakistan. He married his new love, Antonia, then the raunchy wife of royal descendant. She was still his wife. But was staying in Spain these days.

Sharma sat on the toilet seat long after he was through with his pee. He was never sure if he has stopped peeing. That's what sugar does to you: an eternal burning at the edge of your penis. Sharma noticed the trail of urine drops from the door. He got up slowly. He splashed some water on his face. He looked at the mirror. He saw only pain and disgust on his face. He had nothing else left in him. Only hatred.

He was afraid to sleep. He was afraid of dreams. He checked the clock. It was 3.30 in the morning. Another long, boring day is staring at him.

He had not stepped out of the house in a long time. He hated going for a walk. How can anyone stroll into a park without having a cigar to chew on? Or a pipe? And he just couldn't stand the neighbourhood, the sanghis. They seem to live in the park. Doing their circus, bhajans, foolish laughing sessions and, yes, tea and breakfast. Most unbearable is their friendliness. Why can’t they just let an old, retired man be. They will walk along and talk. To share their rightful half-truths. Lies and bores. That's all what life gets, after a certain age.

The last time Sharma went out of his home was more than five months ago, on a stretcher. That was when he had a massive heart attack. Why did he survive?

Perhaps to keep Raju and Nalini employed for some more time. Or, for his sons to get together one last time.

Sharma looked at the clock again. It will take at least an hour before Raju comes in with the bed tea and newspapers. After a while he will serve a toast and a fistful of tablets. He'll turn on the TV and hand over the remote. All for more lies and bores.

Sharma sat on his easy chair by his study table, facing the balcony. The sky had started changing colours. He opened the mini bar at the bottom of the table. He took out a glass and placed it on the table. Then he took out a cognac bottle with great care, trying to control trembling with both hands while pouring a drink. It spilt a bit. He was used to it. He took a sip and then opened the drawer, and  took out his suicide note and gun. He had been doing it almost every day since he wrote the suicide note about a month earlier. It was two days after Antonia had left for Spain, to spend time with her grandchildren who were not his grandchildren.

It was nice when she was around. They would sit in the balcony and talk about old days; the tensions, the uncertainties, of walking out on their families. 

Veena was shocked, but she always knew her husband had an animal-like libido. Vikram was 10 and he told him he didn't want to see him. He did come visiting when he was hospitalised, but eyes clearly said he didn't care. But Antonia cared. All these years. She even came to India with him when old age and frequent nostalgic bouts made him return to his ancestral land and buy a palatial flat in Delhi's suburbs. But ultimately Antonia went back. She visited him for about a month two times a year. She had promised to come back in six months.

But waiting was getting more unbearable every day. Who can endure infinite pain and boredom for, well, a few days with Antonia? Her small talks, her kiss on the cheek, her hugs? Yes, they are lovely, but... 

Sharma put the barrel of the pistol in his mouth. That was one sure way to ensure he didn't miss the target. He had done this several times, several mornings...his eyes tightly shut, his trembling hands struggling to pull the trigger... And then he would hear Raju opening the main door, and would hurriedly put the gun and the suicide note back in the drawer.

It had to change one day. Raju had to be late enough one day. Or Sharma had to be early enough. It was just a matter of time. He had to die. He knew it. He breathed in deeply one last time.

The next morning, newspapers had a small report: Former diplomat shoots himself.